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Prelude to winter,
this gray summer morning.

Forget about autumn;
it’s just a lovely distraction.

Pot holes are spilling last night’s rain;
mud holes make rainbows
with no pots of gold

except , of course,  the promise of spring.
There is much ado in making the change

but the result is the same.
There is a time of bloom  and a time of waiting
and there are mornings like this one,

rainwashed and gray,  when even the sun
sleeps in.

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